Crimson Scars
by Algernon84
Summary: The year is 1926 A.D. Europe is still healing from the wounds of war left almost a decade ago. Two hunters find their paths intersecting and a millennium old evil stirs.
1. Exsanguination on the Orient Express

_Gargoyles_ , created by Greg Weisman, is the property of the Walt Disney Company. _Dracula_ , created by Bram Stoker, is the property of everyone. Everything else in this story is based on real made-up history.

Special thanks to Masterdramon, Gryphinwyrm7 and Bookwyrm for beta-reading and feedback.

* * *

 **15 Pall Mall, London, April 23rd, 11:55 p.m. 1926 AD**

A woman clothed entirely in black stood framed in the door, her face veiled like a widow. "I'm here to see 'M'."

The white gloved doorman nodded silently before ushering her in. She followed as he led her down the narrow corridor, passing the main reading room where several club members sat, each silently ensconced within their own little nook. Each of them might as well have been the only living thing in the room for all they were concerned.

They stopped before an unremarkable door. Only three words emblazoned on a brass plate even hinted at its purpose.

Tʜᴇ Sᴛʀᴀɴɢᴇʀ's Rᴏᴏᴍ

The doorman bowed as he opened the door for the woman in black, closing it silently behind her once she had stepped inside.

"Enter freely and of your own will, Mrs. Harker," a voice boomed from the darkness. Steel grey eyes watched her through a haze of cigar smoke.

"M?" she said, taking a seat. She pulled back her veil to reveal a face that seemed incongruously young for the greying dark hair that framed it.

"I'd offer you a drink but…" he said, pouring himself a brandy.

Her face betrayed no reaction. "It is my understanding that you are something of an information broker?"

"Among other things, but information does not come cheaply."

"You know what I came for. What is your price?"

He slid a photograph across the table that divided them. It depicted a portly gentleman with a bushy mustache standing atop the battlements of a castle. He was beaming proudly, a dream-like gleam in his eyes.

"Karl Schappeller," 'M' began. "Self-styled inventor and occultist, born 1875 in an Austrian poorhouse. He has recently been courting various… esoteric groups in Germany, seeking support for some sort of expedition."

"What of him?" she asked.

"My sources also indicate that Schappeller's been sighted in Budapest, accompanied by an as yet unidentified hooded figure. A figure who has been sighted only at night."

She raised a skeptical eyebrow.

"My price is simple, discover the object of Herr Schappeller's exhibition and prevent it from falling into the Hun's hands at all costs. I'll be happy to reimburse your expenses, of course."

"I was under the impression the Great War was over?" she remarked.

"For now, but there are several in the Teutonic body politic quite eager to make a second go of it. I intend to deny them every advantage possible."

Her eyes widened in something approaching shock. "I know there a great many rabble-rousers on the continent, overly fond of shaking their sabres, but you can't seriously believe anyone in Germany is that insane?"

M leaned back, puffing on his cigar as he somberly regarded the ceiling. "I sincerely hope I'm wrong, Mrs. Harker. "For the sheer novelty of it, if nothing else."

She glared at the photograph. "And if I accomplish this task?"

He smiled without mirth. "Then I'll tell you everything I know about your son's current whereabouts."

[-]

 **Notre Dame Cathedral, Paris, April 24** **th** **, 11:55 a.m.**

Before the oaken doors of the cathedral stood a tall, Valkyriesque woman with blond hair braided into a thick rope. Three slash like scars ran above her left eye.

Fiona Canmore glared up at the looming bell towers, stone demons perched ghoulishly atop the supposedly godly edifice. Six years had passed since she last stood here, not nearly enough.

Still, it couldn't be helped. She needed the information her contact held. She crossed herself as she stepped over the threshold, silently making her way through the aisles before coming to an obscured confessional booth.

Shutting the door behind her, she tensed like a cat in the darkness. A panel slid open, letting in just enough light to accentuate rather than dispel the darkness.

"Give me six lines written by the most honest man in the world," a French accented voice spoke. Its owner was little more than a pointy bearded silhouette.

"And I will find enough in them to hang him," she replied.

"Thank you for coming on such short notice, _mon enfant_."

"Father du Plessis," Fiona Canmore eyed the shadowed priest. "Yuir telegram said you had something urgent for me?"

"Look under your seat."

Fiona found a large envelope. Tearing it open revealed several official looking documents. "My Hungarian is a little rusty?"

"Reports from Budapest, apparently, many of the citizenry claim to have seen a winged fiend flying about the city at night in recent weeks. Alas, the local _gens d'armes_ seem more interested in hounding the city's Hebrew population than seriously investigating the matter."

Fiona rifled through envelope, drawing out the ticket and a small silver crucifix attached to a set of rosary beads. "You do realize I'm not actually Catholic."

"Please, _mon enfant_ , humour an old man. It pains my conscience enough that I send a poor lost sheep, led astray by the madness of Luther and Calvin, to contest with the Adversary."

"Alright, and what do you want this time?"

"You wound me, _mon enfant_. I am simply extended you a small kindness in the hopes that one day you may be in a position to do the same for me."

She smirked as she tucked the envelop and its content away in her long coat. "In other words, you want me in your debt?"

He chuckled darkly. "Such a cynical child, and after I took the liberty of arranging transportation on your behalf?"

"What kind of transportation?"

[-]

 **Gare de Paris-Est; 6:50 p.m.**

Fiona slowly edged her towards the Orient Express, through the crowds swarming the platform. The celebrated train cut an impressive figure, the golden badge of the _Compagnie Internationale des Wagons-Lits_ proudly emblazoned on each carriage.

"Gallic idiots!" A voice cried in English. Fiona turned her head to see Wagon Lit attendants struggling with a large wooden crate, while a third figure unabashedly berated them.

"The contents of that crate are worth more than you pathetic ill-bred troglodytes shall likely make in your entire lives!" shrieked a pale, buck-toothed figure, his arched nostrils flared in outrage. He glared haughtily through a monocle, gesturing imperiously with his cigarette holder as though it were a marshal's baton.

He was well dressed, almost dandyish, though in a style reminiscent of the Edwardian age. Something which struck Fiona as slightly odd considering he looked no older than twenty.

She put the annoying toff out of her head and boarded the train, the conductor directing her to the sleeping compartment assigned by her ticket

"Hello," a voice spoke as she reached for the door handle.

Fiona turned to be greeted by a young middle-eastern girl. She was plainly and modestly dressed, save for the eclectic collection of gold jewellery adorning her neck, wrists and fingers.

"Um… Hello?" answered Fiona uncertainly.

"It appears we'll be traveling together," said the girl, nodding at the compartment.

"Really," Fiona smiled but eyed the girl suspiciously. Much as du Plessis liked to style himself as a humble man of the cloth, Fiona knew too well he had a veritable legion of spies and informants scattered across the continent, and he had been the one to book this ticket. She wasn't at all be surprised that he'd assigned her a 'minder'.

"I'm called Shari," the girl smiled warmly, extending her hand.

"Fiona," the Scot took the proffered hand, thinking it best to play along for now.

"I'm heading to Istanbul, myself. How about you?"

"Budapest."

"Oh, what brings you there?"

"It's a long story."

Shari smiled. "I'm partial to long stories."

[-]

 **Orient Express, 8:55 p.m.**

"The story is told, though who can say if it be true…

"Of a simple shepherd who one day perceived his heifer bleeding and limping. The shepherd followed the trail of blood back to its cause, a great and impossibly ancient sword embedded in the soil. Its blade was black as night, a shining blue jewel embedded in its hilt.

"The shepherd took the blade and presented it to his monarch, Attila, King of the Huns. Attila claimed the sword had been bestowed on him by Heaven, as a symbol of his rightful dominion over the Earth. The Christians of Rome claimed the blade was a sign that the Hun had been divinely ordained to punish the Empire for its decadence, they called it 'The Sword of God'.

"For years, Attila held the Eastern Empire in a state of terror, extracting ever more exorbitant tribute until he was ready to march on Constantinople itself. To celebrate his impending conquest, Attila took the latest of many brides unto himself, a beautiful Dacian princess. Their wedding feast was one of the most extravagant the Hun court had ever known."

"Then what happened?" Fiona asked as she sipped a Turkish coffee as the two women sat in the dining cart.

Shari smiled. "Attila drunk himself into a stupor, got a nosebleed and drowned on his own blood as he slept. At least, that's one version of the story."

"Dinnea take this the wrong way, luv, but that ending's a tad disappointing."

Shari shrugged. "One could argue there's a lesson about hubris in there somewhere."

"So whatever happened to the Sword?" asked Fiona.

"Supposedly, it now resides in the Kunsthistorisches Museum in Vienna. But I have it on very good authority the sword there is a tenth century forgery."

"So you haven't told me yuir story yet. Are you one of these lady authors I hear so much about?"

Shari smiled slightly. "Something like that."

Fiona was more convinced than ever the girl was hiding something but didn't feel the need to press. Everyone had a right to their secrets. The Scot certainly had plenty of her own.

Fiona felt a chill run up the back of her neck.

A woman, clad entirely in black and wearing a widow's veil, stood silently by their table, watching Shari intently. Fiona wondered how the hell some strange woman had got so close without her noticing.

Shari just smiled back serenely.

"Can we help you?" Fiona asked, not making too much effort to hide the irritation.

"Pardon me," spoke the woman in black. "I thought you were… someone else." And without another word, the veiled lady was on her way, prowling through the dining cart.

"What the bloody Hell was that about?" asked Fiona.

"These things happen. A woman of clearly near-eastern extraction traveling through Western Europe is bound to attract a certain amount of… attention. I'm used to it." She shrugged with resignation.

Fiona's eye narrowed. "You shouldn't have to be."

"That's a very… Enlightened of you."

[-]

"Are you sure this is wise?" asked Pierre Michel, picking nervously at the buttons of his uniform. It was well past midnight and most of the passengers had long since retired for the night. Still he couldn't help constantly throwing furtive glances up and down the empty corridor.

"Of course," Replied Jacques as he tried to quietly unlock the compartment with his master key. "Everyone is fast asleep. None will be the wiser."

"But if we're caught, we'll be sacked for sure!" replied Pierre. "I have a daughter to think about, Jacques. Whatever's in that crate can't be worth the risk!"

"Is not about the money," snapped Jacques. "It's about pride! It's about self-respect! If we let some English aristo pig treat us like slaves, then what was the Hundred Years War even for? Why did the Maid of Orleans martyr herself? For what cause did the heroes of the Revolution shed their blood? We do this not for ourselves, Pierre, but for the honour of our forefathers and the glory of France!"

"Really?" Pierre glowered. His father had fought in the Great War, losing a leg and much of his mind for the 'honour and glory of France'. The attendant did not care for his friend's supposed patriotic zeal.

"Well, if we make a few extra Francs for our trouble…" the door opened with a soft click. "Go to your station and stand watch." Jacques slipped into the dark compartment, gently closing the door behind him before quietly lighting a match.

The compartment was empty save for the large wooden crate on the floor. It seemed a waste to book a first class private compartment for a box. Typical decadent aristo, thought Jacques.

He readied his clawed hammer and began quietly prying a nail from the lid of the crate. He practically salivated at the thought of the riches inside, doubting that anyone would notice if he took a pocketful or two for himself, and maybe a bauble for Pierre. After all, everyone knew all these English aristos had more money than they'd ever be able to spend.

It was slower than he would have liked, he had to pry each nail individually. Doing as little damage as possible so they could be pressed back in afterwards. Finally, he was able to lift the lid, revealing.

"Merde!"

The box was empty save for an inch-thick layer of what looked like common earth. He frantically shifted through the soil in a futile search for hidden valuables. "Dirt! That blasted English pig put us through all that for a box of dirt?"

Tap-tap.

"Pierre?" he whispered, looking around for the source of the odd noise.

Tap-tap.

It was coming from the window. He stepped closer, and took hold of the drawn curtains, ready to pull them back at a moment's notice.

He swiftly drew the curtain aside, revealing nothing but pitch black night. He shook his head and turned away. His nerves were clearly playing tricks on him and he didn't have time to waste.

Tap-tap.

He inched back towards the window, not really understanding why. Opening the window, he gingerly leaned his head out into the night.

The last thing Jacques saw were two shining crimson orbs just inches from his face. The last thing he heard was his own muffled scream as pale talons clamped around his jaw, dragging him bodily into the void.

Outside in the corridor, Pierre knocked softly on the door. "Jacques? Are you alright?"

The compartment was empty. The window was shut and the curtains drawn. The wooden crate lay secure and undisturbed. Pierre shivered. It bore a fiendish resemblance to a coffin in the gloom.

Still, he was relieved. Obviously, Jacques had come to his senses before doing any real harm. Though for the life of him, Pierre couldn't imagine how his friend had slipped away without being seen.

[-]

 _Hanging desperately from the Cathedral, the city looms below. Stone talons seize her throat before hurling her into the abyss._

 _The Demon laughs_

Fiona awoke with a start.

"Bad dreams?" Shari's voice asked from the lower sleeping berth.

"Sorry…" groaned the Scot. "Did I wake you?"

"Not at all, I was just doing a bit of reading." The girl held up a tome with a single blood-red word emblazoned on its yellow cover

Dʀᴀᴄᴜʟᴀ

"Have you ever read it?" asked Shari? "It's delightfully chilling."

"No," Fiona replied. "Frankly, I canne understand what anyone sees in that garbage. You'd think there'd be horror enough in the real world?"

"Every race and nation since the dawn of history have told tales of demonic creature that prowled the night, preying on the innocent. Perhaps human beings need frightful tales of imagined monsters to better cope with the real ones?" The girl mused, turning a page.

Fiona said nothing in response, instead climbing down from her berth and yanking on her heavy boots. "I'm going for a breath of fresh air."

"Enjoy," said Shari, watching the Scot depart before returning to her reading. Once again, she journeyed by the side of the young English solicitor, along the winding paths of the Borgo Pass, through wolves and witch-fire to the very gates of the ancient castle until…

Tap-tap.

She perked up, laying her book aside. "Hello?"

Tap-tap

It came from the window.

[-]

Fiona passed the sleeping car attendant, dozing at his station. She patted her pockets and swore softly before returning to her compartment.

"Sorry, I forgot my…" The words died in her throat.

Fiona stared in horror as Shari was forcibly dragged out through the open window, pale talons wrapped around the girl's throat as twin scarlet orbs gleamed hellishly in the darkness beyond.

In an instant the girl and her abductor were gone.

Without thinking the Scot lunged for her pistol and "lucky backpack". Ever since it had saved her life in Paris, she made a point of never traveling without it.

Strapping the pack tightly and securing her pistol, Fiona climbed out the window. Clinging to even the slightest finger or toe hold as she made her way to the train's rooftop. The whipping winds threatened to send her hurtling to her death at any moment.

Reaching the roof, Fiona saw Shari's struggling in the grip of a shadowed figure. "Drop the girl!" she cried, crouched and training her pistol on the attacker.

The shadow turned, snarling like a beast at bay. Bone white fangs shone in the moonlight.

Fiona didn't hesitate to respond by sending a bullet right between the hellishly glowing eyes. The thing crumpled to the ground unceremoniously.

The Scot made her way to the young girl. "Shari, you alright?"

"I think so… what was that thing?" the girl murmured, staring at her fallen assailant. Fiona followed her gaze. It was not what she had expected.

The body was unmistakably human. Even in the moonlight, Fiona recognized it as the imperious Englishman she had seen on the platform in Paris. He looked exactly as he had then, save that his bucked teeth had somehow narrowed and sharpened into rat-like incisors. And of course the bloody bullet hole in his forehead.

"We'll worry about that later." Fiona helped the still disorientated girl make her way to the final carriage, where she was safety lowered onto the platform abutting the end of the train.

"Can you make it back from here?" asked Fiona.

"I think so, thanks," replied Shari.

"Dinne mention it… to anyone." Her charge safe, Fiona made her way back along the roofs of the carriages. Going slowly and cautiously due to the gathering mist.

It wouldn't do to have a body with a bullet in its skull found aboard when they pulled into the next station. Fortunately, that was easily solved. So Fiona was surprised to find the corpse had already disappeared by the time she reached where she had left it. She wondered if it had slipped off.

Suddenly, a pale wizened claw materialized out of the mist, talons digging deep into her throat. Mist continued to coalesce around the claw, forming into the shape of the supposedly dead Englishman, who now stood seemingly alive and whole before her.

"You owe me a meal, you Scotch harridan, and Lord Falsworth always collects on his debts," the dead man hissed as a serpent-like tongue flickered unnervingly close to his Fiona's throat.

"Release her."

Fiona looked over her attacker's shoulder. The veiled widow from earlier stood atop the train car, her black cloak billowing in the wind.

"Harker!" the creature spat.

"Run, you idiot!" Fiona yelled. "He isn't human!"

"What are you doing here, Falsworth?" asked the woman in black, nonplussed. "I thought your master said he'd stake you himself if you ever showed your face on the Continent again."

"Funny you should mention that, I was actually on my way to Budapest, seeking to buy my way back into his good graces. But on further reflection," He chuckled darkly. "I think he'd much prefer having your whimpering, bleeding carcass tossed at his feet!"

"Business before pleasure, Falsworth." the veiled woman spoke. "Let. Her. Go."

The creature grinned as the train began passing over a deep gorge. "As you wish," he quipped before hurling the Scot over the edge.

"NO!" the Veiled Woman cried.

Fiona screamed.

The thing called Falsworth dropped down on all fours, its shape beginning to shift grotesquely. Clothes seemed to melt into a dark purplish hide. Thin leathery membranes stretched between arms and legs as nails grew into gnarled talons. His face flattened, ears flared like a bat's as eyes grew into blood-red orbs. Finally, the thing's mouth tore open from ear to ear, revealing row upon row of needle-like fangs.

It hissed at the woman called Harker, then pounced.

 _ **To be continued…**_


	2. Tears of Danu

_Gargoyles_ , created by Greg Weisman, is the property of the Walt Disney Company. _Dracula_ , created by Bram Stoker, is the property of everyone. Everything else in this story is based on real made-up history.

Special thanks to Masterdramon, Gryphinwyrm7 and Bookwyrm for beta-reading and feedback.

* * *

 **Orient Express, April 25th, 2:23 a.m. 1926 A.D.**

The thing that had been Lord Falsworth pounced. Mina Harker drew her silver coated Kukri knife and raked the shining blade along the monster's chest in one smooth motion. The creature recoiled in abject agony, the gaping wound smouldering as though the metal had been white hot.

Harker lunged forward to drive her blade deep into the monster's throat but the Falsworth-thing moved too quickly. Its clawed hand slashed out with inhuman strength and speed, sending her and her silver weapon hurtling along the roof of the train. Only her own preternatural reflexes kept her from joining the brave Scot the creature had callously flung to her death only a moment ago.

The Englishwoman desperately reached for the fallen Kukri knife before a taloned hand clamped down on her wrist. Another hand wrapped around her throat as the demonic visage of Lord Falsworth leered down at her.

"You're weak, Harker," the thing rasped. "You've been starving yourself while I've drunk deep. Oh, how I tremble to think of the things the Master will do once he has you within his power again. Perhaps if I'm very lucky… he'll let me watch?"

Harker chuckled.

The creature scowled. "What is so amusing?"

"I already found your box, Falsworth." She smirked. "Come, sunrise, you'll have nowhere to sleep."

"No…" The Falsworth-creature's face contorted in rage and terror. "you… you lying whore!" It raised its talons to decapitate its prey in a single stroke, when a heavy boot slammed into the side of its skull.

"WAAAAHOOOO!" rang out a defiant Scottish brogue.

Harker looked up in astonishment as the Scot Falsworth had thrown overboard landed safely, if ungracefully, upon the train-top. Mechanical bat-like wings flared from her backpack, like a Da Vinchi sketch made manifest.

"God, I love this thing!" the Scot crowed proudly.

"Wretched Celt!" An enraged Falsworth pounced, ignoring his previous prey.

Harker snapped up the silver blade and leapt upon the beast's back. One hand roughly grabbed Falsworth by his scalp while the other hand brought the silvered knife around to cut deep into its throat.

The creature gurgled incoherently. Night black ichor spurting from its throat and mouth as Harker completely severed the fiend's head from its body.

The thing's corpse fell limply to the train-roof, reverting to human form as over a decade's worth of natural decay quickly caught up with it.

The Scot approached gingerly, glaring at the rotting corpse incredulously. "He was a…"

"A vampire, one of the Undead," replied Harker.

"Aren't they supposed to crumble into dust when ya' kill them?"

"Not always." Harker was pleasantly surprised. Most people in this situation would try to deny what they had witnessed but the Scot seemed to be acclimating to the existence of the supernatural quickly.

"So what do we do with him?" the Scot asked, gesturing at the body. "I don't fancy explain' _that_ to the conductor."

"We can dump the body in the next river we cross, and the head in the one after that," Mina explained. "God willing, that will prevent any idiot from trying to resurrect him. Thank you for your assistance, Miss...?"

The Scot extended her hand. "Canmore, Fiona Canmore?"

"Mrs. Wilhelmina Harker," she said, taking the hand. "But my friends call me 'Mina'."

"Fair enough… Mina."

[-]

Fiona sipped her coffee, sitting across from Mina. Normally, the dinning carriage would be deserted this early in the morning but one of the night attendants had been brewing some coffee while the two women were passing and offered them both a cup.

"And the Canmore clan have been hunting demons and monsters ever since. After my brother Jackson died, I got conscripted inta the 'family business'." Said Fiona, finishing her tale. "So what's yuir story?"

"A vampire killed my husband," said Mina, brooding over her own coffee. "I can never forgive the monster responsible, so now I hunt them."

"I'm sorry," said Fiona. "I should nea have asked."

"It's alright. Somehow, I doubt it's mere chance we're both bound for Budapest. Perhaps we should pool our resources?"

Fiona and Mina spent the better part of an hour sharing all they knew of the strange nocturnal sighting above Budapest and Karl Schappeller respectively.

"You think this Schappeller character's working for a vampire?" Fiona asked.

"I admit I was sceptical," Mina replied. "But these reports of yours are… suggestive. Sadly, Schappeller wouldn't be the first to turncoat on mankind."

"Well, I'm in." Fiona lifted her cup. "To the Hunt?"

"To the Hunt," Mina responded in kind. She rose to leave as the grey light of dawn creeped over the horizon. "If you'll excuse me, Miss Canmore, it's been a tiring night. I hope I'll see you before we reach Budapest?"

"Likewise," Fiona watched as her new found comrade silently make her way through to the sleeping carriage. "Hm, she must be tired. Didn't even touch her coffee."

[-]

Once secure within her private sleeping compartment, Mina drew a small black pouch from her dress. She opened it, allowing a deathly stench to fill the room before spreading over the bed a thin layer of earth dug from an English grave, her grave.

[-]

 **Budapest, 9:10 p.m.**

Once more, Fiona found herself on a swarming train platform. Though this time disembarking rather than boarding.

"I'm sorry to see you go," Shari said as she gave the Scot a brief hug.

Fiona chuckled. "Just try not to get inta too much trouble in Istanbul, alright?"

"I shan't make promises I have no intention of keeping," said Shari before turning to offer Mina a hug.

"Miss Zade," Harker inclined her head slightly.

"Don't take it personally," Fiona whispered in Shari's ear. "She's English, they're all like that."

"Well…" Shari fidgeted with her jewellery. "I best get back on board before the train leaves without me. Do write, Fiona. I'd love to hear how this story continues."

"You mean how it ends?" asked Fiona.

"Don't be silly, Fiona." Shari smirked back as she re-embarked. "Real stories don't have endings, just places where the teller ran out of room."

"There's something queer about that girl," remarked Mina. "No one who smiles that much can have wholesome cause for it."

"Ach, yuir being paranoid," replied Fiona. "So, any thoughts on where we go from here?"

"I doubt it's a coincidence Schappeller and Falsworth both developed a sudden interest in Budapest," Mina mused. "Falsworth would likely have arranged to have his earth box transported to a prepared lair somewhere in the city."

"Simple enough," said Fiona. "We just wait for someone to show up and follow them back to Schappeller."

They watched as the remaining Wagon Lit attendants wrestled the ungainly coffin-box down onto the platform. They were approached by a pair of rather plain looking Hungarian workmen who presented them with what looked like a letter of introduction.

"Here we go," whispered Fiona.

[-]

In little over an hour, Fiona and Mina stood across the street from a decaying Budapest townhouse. They watched as the workmen finished loading the earth box into the main hall. They locked the front door behind them, tossing the keys in the letter box and riding their cart into the night.

Fiona looked up and down the street. "All clear, I could pick the lock but that'll likely take a while and could get awkward if one o' the local bobbies passes by."

"I have a better idea," said Mina. "Wait ten minutes then come knock on the front door." The black clad woman crossed the street and disappeared into a darkened alley by the house.

Fiona waited pensively, alone in the night. She could almost feel the shadows pressing in around the orange glow of the street lamps. No matter how bright or long the light burned, the dark always seemed to be waiting for the first sign of weakness, the first flicker of doubt. Not for the first time in her life, she wondered what was hiding in those shadows.

She crossed the street and raised her hand to knock on the door. Before her knuckles had even grazed the wood, it swung open, revealing Mina standing in the lamp light.

Fiona cocked an eyebrow in mild surprise. "I dinne hear any windows break. How the Devil did you get in here?"

"I crawled down the chimney," Mina responded flatly.

Fiona smirked. "And here was I thinkin' you dinne have a sense of humour."

A search of the house revealed little. Apparently, it had lain vacant for many years and little had been done to maintain the upkeep or prepare it for its new tenant. While it might once have been a lavish abode, now it practically choked with dust and cobwebs.

While searching the dining room, Fiona happened upon a small envelope, relatively free of dust and intentionally left where someone would easily spot it. The wax seal bore the image of a dragon or serpent of some kind, biting down on its own tail.

She ripped the envelope open without any particular ceremony and began to read. The handwriting looked strangely archaic in style but she could make it out easily enough.

 _Falsworth,_

 _Our rivals move faster than anticipated. Seek the Tear of Danu. This is your final chance to redeem yourself in my eyes. Do not waste it._

 _Your Lord and Master, now and forever,_

 _D._

Fiona was alerted by the sound of breaking glass as a large rock came sailing through the window, followed by a metallic oval shaped object.

Mina burst into the room. "Fiona, what is…"

"Grenade!" Fiona cried, tackling the Englishwoman as they dived headfirst out the broken window.

They hit the cold pavement with a thud, followed by a deafening explosion from inside the house. Within a few minutes, the entire edifice was in flames. Fiona looked up to see a motorcar recklessly swing a corner as it fled.

"Damn it," she swore.

[-]

Back in Room 23 of the Grand Royal Hotel, Mina sorted through a stack of local and international papers while Fiona paced back and forth like a caged tigress. The Scot despised inactivity, especially while the prey's trail was only getting colder by the minute.

"You're certain the letter referred to the 'Tear of Danu'?" asked Mina.

"Yes, whatever that means." Answered Fiona.

"Danu was an Indo-European goddess who gave her name to the river Danube. The Tear of Danu is a gem believed to be of 5th century Hunnic origins and passed down to the Árpád dynasty, Hungary's first kings."

Fiona perked up, "How the Hell do you know all that?"

Mina help up a newspaper baring a photograph of a small gem on a silver chain. "Because it's currently on display at the Hungarian National Museum."

[-]

 **Erzsébetváros District, Budapest, April 29** **th** **, 11:55 p.m.**

Fiona stamped her foot on the rooftop, as though she could hold back the cold of the biting night through sheer bloody-mindedness. Next to her, Mina kept careful watch on the Hungarian National Museum across the street. A statue of János Arany, the Hungarian "Shakespeare of Ballads" sat enthroned before the regal edifice.

"Why aren't you freezing yuir arse off?" Fiona stamped her foot again.

"I'm accustomed to the cold," replied Mina.

"Are you certain about this," the Scot asked. "We've been casing this place for three nights now and so far…" She froze in mid-sentence, hunter's instincts kicking in as she dragged Mina into the sheltering shadows.

"What in God's name…" Mina hissed.

Fiona put a finger to the Englishwoman's lips before pointing upwards. A black winged shadow soared across the moon before descending upon the museum's rooftop.

[-]

Fiona hurled a grappling hook through the shattered window, giving it a few vigorous tugs to ensure it had caught securely. She quickly scrambled up the thin rope, followed closely by Mina.

As they carefully edged over the shards of broken glass into the museum's darkened hall way, Mina suddenly tensed like a cornered cat.

"What's wrong?" Fiona whispered.

"I smell… something," replied Mina quietly, pointing towards where the corridor turned.

Fiona drew her pistol and edged cautiously towards the end of the corridor, peaking her head slowly around the corner. "My God."

The body of a night watchmen lay sprawled in a pool of his own blood, his face crushed and made unrecognisable by a blow of some heavy weapon.

"Did a vampire do this, Mina?" asked Fiona. "Mina?"

The Englishwoman stood stock straight, shaking violently at the sight of the bloody mangled mess.

"Hey," Fiona steadied the Englishwoman's arm. "Are you alright?"

"I'm fine," said Mina, mastering herself. She looked around, the corridor forked. "Perhaps we should divide our forces… cover more ground?"

Fiona nodded. Some might question the wisdom of splitting up, but both women were used to hunting solo. It was their element.

The Scot drew her pistol and stalked alone down the left corridor, coming to one of the main exhibit halls. Everywhere she turned, relics of Hungary's former Imperial glory shone like stars in the night sky, save for one glass case that stood shattered and empty.

Something moved behind her.

Before she could turn, something blue and leathery brutally struck from the darkness, sending Fiona and her weapon scattering across the room. She tried to scramble for the gun, only to find herself pinned to the cold marble floor as razor sharp talons dug into her back.

"How many times do I have to kill you, Hunter?" an all too familiar voice spoke. A voice Fiona had heard in her nightmares every night for years. She craned her neck back to see her captor, knowing full well the sight that would greet her.

The creature's foot was planted firmly in Fiona's back, a bloody mace still clutched tightly in its fist. Its skin was pale blue, leather wings like those of some extinct reptile sprouted from its shoulder blades. A shocking crimson mane framed a face so deceptively human it would be almost beautiful if not for the snarling fangs and the eyes that blazed with Hellish hate. It was the very embodiment of Evil, the thing her brother, her father and her forefather's had all given their lives to vanquish.

"Well," the Demon drawled indifferently as it raised the gore crusted mace. "I suppose one more won't make much difference."

 _ **To be continued…**_


	3. Tomb of Attila

_Gargoyles_ , created by Greg Weisman, is the property of the Walt Disney Company. _Dracula_ , created by Bram Stoker, is the property of everyone. Everything else in this story is based on real made-up history.

Special thanks to Masterdramon, Gryphinwyrm7 and Bookwyrm for beta-reading and feedback.

* * *

 **Hungarian National Musuem, Budapest, April 30** **th** **, 12:23 a.m.**

Fiona tried in vain to rise up against the talons digging into her back, pinning her to the cold marble floor. "If you kill me, Demon, another will take up the Hunt," she spat.

"I'll cross that bridge when I come to it." The Demon brought the mace swinging down.

Fiona shut her eyes tight. A shot rang out, followed by a panther-like shriek of pain. When Fiona opened her eyes again, the iron mace lay embedded in the floor beside her and the Demon's taloned hand was bloody and limp.

"Release her, gargoyle!" a voice cried out as another bullet whizzed by the Demon's horned skull.

Fiona turned her head to see Mina wielding her own pistol. "For God's sake, Mina, put one between its eyes!" cried the Scot.

The Demon's nostrils flared as though taking in a scent. She eyed the newcomer warily. "So be it, take the human if you desire her. I already have what I came for." The creature dropped to all fours and loped off with the speed and grace of a jungle cat.

Mina rushed to the fallen Fiona's side. "Are you hurt?"

"Give me that!" Fiona snapped, grabbing back her pistol before giving chasing. She was too late to prevent the Demon leaping through a window and taking to the air.

She took aim and fired wildly into the night sky, again and again until her pistol ran empty.

"Fiona...?" spoke Mina, placing a hand on the Scot's shoulder.

"I'm fine," Fiona lied. "I'm heading back to the hotel to stock up. If the Demon's here, every man, woman and child in Budapest is in danger. You coming?"

"Go on without me. I need to… check something before the local constabulary arrive."

"Fine," Fiona spoke curtly before descending the rope still hanging outside the shattered window.

Mina had no idea what history Fiona shared with the strange gargoyle that attacked them, but that would have to wait.

She stood over the body of the dead guard, cold blood congealing in a crimson circle around him. The sight of it revolted and disgusted her, but not as much as the beast dwelling in the back of her mind. The thing slavering in hunger.

[-]

 **Grand Royal Hotel, 12:23 p.m.**

"Mina?" Fiona knocked on the door again. "Mina are you there?"

No response.

"That girl must sleep like the dead," the Scot muttered in frustration. She couldn't afford to waste any more valuable sunlight. Fishing pen and paper from her pocket, she scrawled a hasty note.

 _Mina,_

 _Got a hold of a motorcycle and sidecar. Going to search likely roosting spots before sundown. With luck, I can nip this in the bud._

 _Fiona._

Her missive complete, she slipped it under Mina's door and headed out to continue the Hunt.

[-]

It was edging close to sunset when Fiona finally entered Matthia's church in Budapest's castle district. She had spent most of the day searching the rooftops of St. Stephan's Cathedral and the Parliament to no avail. If she did not find her quarry's den soon, she would be forced to post-pone the Hunt for another night.

She slipped quietly into the gleaming white bell tower that rose majestically over the main body of the church. Her steps up the wooden stairs were slow and silent. She knew that her prey could not possibly sense her approach as long as the sun still shone, but fifteen years of the Hunt had made stealth an unconscious act.

When she finally reached the belfries, the sun was just touching the horizon, casting a ruddy orange glow over the city. She stepped onto the small shaded balcony that surrounded the bell tower, and there it was.

The Demon sat perched on a small ledge, its unholy form imprisoned in stone by the purifying light of the sun. Its face glared down on the peaceful city with an expression of animalistic hate.

"Finally," Fiona sighed as she drew a heavy sledgehammer from her bag. "It's over."

The hammer ground to a halt in mid swing, black clad hands that were not Fiona's held it in an iron grip.

"Mina!" The Scot stared at the English woman. "What the Hell do you think yuir doing!? I coulda killed you!"

Mina Harker held the hammer fast, refusing to relinquish her grip. "I'm preventing you from making the greatest mistake of your life!"

Fiona's demeanour hardened. "Let go, Mina! This monster killed my brother, and that's the least of its crimes against my family!"

"Whatever her sins, she's still a living being. You can't kill her, Fiona… not like this!"

"Oh and I suppose you've ne'er staked a bloodsucker in their coffin?"

"That's different," Mina responded coldly.

"HOW!? How is it different?"

"Undeath is a disease that ravages body and spirit alike, Fiona. Releasing a soul from that walking damnation is an act of mercy, believe me. But this… This is murder!"

"No, this is justice!" Fiona snarled, struggling to tear the hammer from Mina's grip.

"Please, Fiona, be pragmatic. If you kill her, she can't lead us to Schappeller!"

"SO WHAT?! Why do you give a toss about some Austrian tinkerer anyway?" Fiona practically screamed in frustration.

"Because… He's my only hope of finding my son." Said Mina weakly, pleadingly.

Fiona stared, silent and uncomprehending. Her mind raced to process what Mina had just said. She was snapped out of her reverie by the sound of cracking stone.

The sun had just slipped under the horizon.

[-]

Demona unleashed a panther-like roar as she shook the last flakes of stone-skin from her awakening form. Some instinct screamed at her. She twisted around in one fluid motion, her eyes blazing red and her talons ready to deal death in the blink of an eye.

The bell tower stood empty and deserted.

Her eyes scanned the looming twilight shadows, finding nothing. Still, she made a mental note to move on to a new roost before the next sunrise, much as it went against the gargoyle's naturally territorial instincts. Bitter experience had thought her that remaining in the same place too long was practically suicide.

But that could wait. Tonight was the Night of Walpurgis, and there was much work to do. She launched herself into the twilight sky, her wings catching the wind that carried her over the dusky city.

She didn't notice two figures watching her from the base of the bell tower.

[-]

 **Somewhere outside Budapest, 8:15 p.m.**

Karl Schappeller sat at a workbench in the corner of the barn, tinkering with a device that bore only the vaguest resemblance to a metal detector. He carefully soldered a delicate looking blue crystal to the heart of the machine.

On the opposite side of the barn, half a dozen Czech mercenaries sat around a rickety table playing cards. The largest of them detached himself from the group and stalked over the worktable.

"Where is out employer, Schappeller?" a deep voice rumbled. Its owner was built like a stone slab with an iron grey beard and coal black eyes.

"She'll be here in good time, Brod." Schappeller went back to his machine, or at least pretended to. He'd never admit it, but Simon Brod intimidated him slightly. Not nearly as much as their mutual 'employer' but still.

The barn door was flung open with enough force to tear it from its hinges, the winged silhouette of Schappeller's employer stood framed in the moonlight, her eyes burned a hellish crimson.

The Austrian nervously stood to attention, dusting himself off. "Ah, _mein Herrin_ , we were not expecting you so…"

The Gargoyle stormed past the inventor's workbench to where the remaining mercenaries still sat playing cards. With a snarl of rage, she grabbed the table with one hand and sent it hurtling across the barn, splintering it to fragments.

"Which one of you imbecilic apes was responsible for bombing the address I gave you five nights ago?!" she roared, murder in her glare.

The men, hardened soldiers of fortune all, froze like hares in the wolf's gaze. None dared to speak or move until Brod quietly interposed himself between the enraged gargoyle and his troops. "Is something wrong, Ma'am?"

"I was ambushed by one of Tepes' wretches last night, Brod. You told me your men burned his lair to the ground along with everything inside it."

"So I was told," said, Brod glancing meaningfully over his shoulder.

"Then give me the vermin responsible, Brod." The gargoyle flexed her talons.

"No."

"What!?"

"My men, I discipline them. You pay for me and my men. You not like the work we do? Fair enough… You take it out on _me_." He stood before her, seemingly without fear or defiance, just simple resignation to whatever came next.

She flexed her talons once more. "Have your men ready to move out in ten minutes, I can't afford to waste any more time then I already have on you. Schappeller, with me!"

"Of course, Mistress!" the would be occultist answered.

She paused before the door of the barn before ripping the lid from a nearby crate. It was filled with bullets, chains and knives. An armoury that had cost her a small fortune, for every last piece of it shone silver in the moonlight. She selected a serrated dagger for herself, tucking it into her belt, before striding imperiously into the night.

Once they were out of earshot, one of the younger mercenaries stepped forward and spoke to Brod in their native Czech. "Thank you, Sir, I…"

Before he could say another word, Brod swung around and socked the young man right on the jaw, sending him collapsing to the ground. "The next time I give you a job, you make sure it gets done. And if you ever embarrass me like that in front of a client again… I'll snap your neck myself."

[-]

From the shadows of an overgrown field, Fiona and Mina watched as several mercenaries began loading equipment onto a truck outside the barn.

"Where do you suppose they're headed?" asked Mina.

"Don't know, but wherever they're going, the Demon's going with them," responded Fiona.

They watched in darkness, silence filling the void between them.

"So…" Fiona began. "You never said anything about having a son?"

Mina was quite.

"He disappeared several years ago while traveling in Austria. The man who sent me after Schappeller claims to have information about his whereabouts."

"And he'll only give you this information _after_ ya bring him whatever Schappeller and the Demon are looking for?"

"Essentially."

Fiona snorted in disgust. "Reminds me of a cardinal I know. Well… for what it's worth I don't blame you for stopping me ending the Demon."

"I didn't do it just for him… I did it for _you_. That sort of blood stains the soul, Fiona… believe me."

"They're moving!" Fiona said before straddling atop the motor cycle. "You coming?"

[-]

 **Banks of the Danube, 11:55 p.m.**

"Are you certain, Schappeller?" Demona spoke, watching the silver moonlight dance upon the surface of the greatest river in Europe.

" _Ja, mein Herrin_ ," said the Austrian inventor as he fiddled with the dials of his 'Vril Detector'. "The Sword is about 50 meters off shore, give or take."

"And how exactly are we supposed to get to it, swim?" Brod drawled.

Demona smirked. "No… we walk."

She waded knee deep into the water, holding the Tear of Danu by its silver chain and lowering it until the azure gem was completely submerged. Then in a low murmur, she chanted in a language that had not been heard in this part of the world for almost fifteen centuries.

In an instant, a massive water spout erupted from the river's surface, whirling like a tornado before coalescing into the form of a woman of titanic proportions.

A crown rested on her brow, sparkling silver in the moonlight. Queenly robes literally fell about her, a sword hung at her hip. Her regalia, like her body, was composed entirely of rich flowing water.

Schappeller and the mercenaries drew back from the shore, gaping like children.

Demona did not even flinch. She locked eyes with the watery figure. "You are the guardian of this river?"

"I _am_ the River."

Demona held the Tear of Danu aloft. "Then I call upon you to honour the pact made with the Hun shaman who forged this stone all those centuries ago. Grant us passage to the Tomb of Attila!"

"So be it," the River spoke.

The image of the goddess dissolved into the waves. The waters of the river pulled back, revealing a muddy path down to the deepest part of the river bed.

Demona walked down the path until she came to a patch of weeds, sweeping them aside to reveal a great stone slab.

Brod followed gingerly, eying the walls of water surrounding him warily. "It's going to take at least half dozen of the men most of the night to lift that thing."

Demon dug her talons into the slab before lifting it over her head and tossing it aside. A set of stone steps leading down into the darkness.

She looked back at Brod. "Attend me."

[-]

"What in God's name is that thing?" Mina whispered hoarsely. She and Fiona witnessed everything from the cover of the tree-line.

"Probably just a Child o' Oberon," Fiona replied.

"A what?" Mina asked.

Fiona pinched the bridge of her nose. "Not important. This is our chance to corner the Demon and put an end to her evil once and for all."

"The two of us against over a dozen armed men and a murderous immortal sorceress?" Mina mused.

"I know." Fiona smirked. "Poor bastards don't have a prayer."

[-]

Filip stamped his feet, lighting a cigarette. The match shook slightly as he tried to hold it steady. His hand continued to tremble nervously. Between the debacle earlier and the unnaturally parted river behind him, he was terrified of risking Brod or their 'client's' wrath again. Luckily, guarding an abandoned river bank in the middle of nowhere should not be too challenging.

"Hm?" He looked down. Something resembling a large ball bearing rolled against his foot. An instant later it exploded into a cloud of smoke that filled half the clearing, sending Filip and the rest of his comrades on guard duty into a panic.

Next thing Filip felt was a clenched fist driving into his nose.

[-]

Mina had already moved on to the next guard before the first had even hit the ground. The smoke did little to impede her senses. She could still smell her prey's fear, hear their hearts pounding. The blood surging through their veins has like the roar of the ocean. It took a substantial amount of her will power to keep her fangs sheathed.

Another guard dropped unconscious. If anything, she had to pace herself, hold back. Fiona couldn't be more than a few feet away.

A third guard groped blindly at her. To Mina's perception, he moved as though wading in a sea of molasses. It gave her time to reflect.

Ever since her first death, Mina never thought she be able to relate to a mortal again. Yet despite everything, she felt a certain kinship with the hunter. Perhaps, Mina mused darkly, because the Scot was something of a monster herself.

A shot rang out as the smoke began to clear.

Mina turned to see the mercenary captain lower his pistol and press the still smoking barrel to the back of Fiona's skull.

"Enough, _Čarodějnice!_ " the Captain barked. "If you don't want to see her brains mixed with the river muck, you'll throw down your weapon… now."

"Bloody Hell, Mina! Just shoot the pig!" Fiona cried before the butt of the pistol came rapped down on the back of her skull.

"Well?" the Captain asked.

[-]

"What part of 'shoot him' did you not understand?" Fiona hissed at her fellow captive as they were marched down the steps of the tomb.

"It wasn't worth your life," Mina whispered.

"Oh? And I suppose you expect them to just let us go with a warning after this?" Fiona sniped. She noticed that while her hands were bound by rope ,Mina's gloved wrists had been tied by a silver chain. "Why are…?"

"No talking!" the captain snapped, prodding his pistol into Fiona's back.

She gazed about the interior of the tomb, searching for any kind of escape. Half a dozen chambers led off from the central corridor, most of them piled high with gold, jewellery and other treasures. One contained what appeared to be a mummified horse with chariot, yet another stood bare and empty.

Every square inch of wall, floor and ceiling was covered by the most vibrant and exquisite tiled mosaics she had ever seen. They would have been beautiful had their subject matter not been so disturbing.

Everywhere she turned were images of rape and slaughter, Roman temples crumbling and aflame, the severed heads of men, women and children assembled into grisly pyramids. Above it all loomed the figure of a mounted barbarian king holding an ornate and bloody sword aloft in triumph.

"Poor Attila," a voice purred with mock pity.

The Demon stood before a vast iron sarcophagus, her lips pursed in a cruel sneer. "After a lifetime of war, he finally stands on the brink of crushing his most hated enemy beneath his heel… only to drowns in his own bile while he slept. All his dreams of conquest and vengeance ending in humiliation and failure. I imagine you can empathize, Hunter?"

"Do what you want with me, Demon!" Fiona snarled. "If I fall, another Canmore will take up the Hunt, and ano-"

The Demon back handed Fiona, sending a fresh burst of pain through her already aching skull. "Do you have ANY idea how many times I've had to listen to that inane speech of yours?"

"Don't you DARE touch her!" Mina cried, straining against her bonds.

"Interesting," the Demon purred. "I've never known one of your kind to show such concern for a mortal. Tepes must be desperate if he sends one of his whores to task me."

The Demon grabbed Fiona roughly by the collar. "And you, Hunter! You have the gall to call me 'demon' while consorting with this… parasite! What did she promise you? What price was your soul, Canmore?"

"What the devil are you raving about?" said Fiona.

The Demon stared dumbfounded for a moment, before breaking out into a hellish cackle. "You… you really don't know, do you? Well… allow me to enlighten you before you die."

Before Fiona could react, the Demon savagely tore the silver crucifix from around her neck. She turned to Mina. "Hold her!"

Fiona turned to see two mercenaries forcing Mina to her knees. For the first time since they met, she saw stark terror on the usually impassive English woman's face.

"What are you doing?!" cried Fiona.

"Showing you the truth." The Demon pressed the silver crucifix against Mina's face. Then the screaming started.

Fiona watched in uncomprehending horror as her friend's skin burned and sizzled at the touch of the cool metal as though it was a red hot branding iron. Mina's eyes blazed an infernal crimson, her canines grew into wolfish fangs and her screams devolved into an animalistic howling that could have issued from no human throat.

The Demon finally withdrew the crucifix. Mina collapsed to the tiled floor, the charred image of a cross still smouldering on her pale flesh.

Fiona was speechless.

" _Bůh v nebi_ …" the Captain whispered, reaching for his pistol. "Kill them both!"

"No!" The Demon raised a talon. "I have a better idea."

Fiona felt her face scrape against the tiled floor as she and the creature she'd known as "Mina" were roughly thrown into the empty chamber. She turned back to see the Demon standing smugly by the stone doorway, a silhouette against the torchlight.

"Poor Hunter," the Demon purred, grabbing Fiona roughly by the chin and looking down on the Hunter's eyes with sadistic glee. "I wonder how long before the revenant's thirst overwhelms what lingering conscience she has left?"

Fiona took the opportunity to spit in the Demon's eye.

The Demon's eyes flared blood red, her talons twitched around Fiona's throat as though fighting the urge to tear out the human's windpipe right then and there.

"You'd like that, wouldn't you?" the Demon hissed. "A good clean death. Perhaps if you're very lucky, the creature will get lonely and turn you, then you can both spend the rest of eternity rotting in this pit."

The Demon tossed Fiona roughly to the floor before withdrawing from the chamber and dragging a stone slab over the opening, plunging everything into darkness.

[-]

Demona finished filling in the joins of the slab with a paste composed partially of ground communion wafers, silver dust and other more esoteric ingredients. She congratulated herself on having the foresight to 'liberate' a portion of the Host during her last visit to Notre Dame.

"Now to business," she said, turning her attention back towards the iron sarcophagus. She stood there, silently admiring it for several minutes as though waiting for something.

She turned to Brod. "Well?"

Brod frowned, then began barking orders to his men in German. Within minutes, about a dozen mercenaries where strenuously hauling the iron lid aside, revealing a shining white silver coffin.

Demona examined her talons nonchalantly, Schappeller was practically jumping up and down with childish excitement. The silver lid was roughly shoved pried to reveal yet another coffin, this one of lustrous gold.

Finally, the third and last lid was laid aside. Within the golden coffin lay a wizened, mummified figure, as though some mad taxidermist had stretched a layer of human skin over a skeleton two sizes too big for it. Grey wisps of hair still clung to its chin and scalp. Hollow eye sockets glared back at the onlookers, its dried lips drawn back in a frozen rictus grin. Armor plating covered the figure's torso and a leathery wolf pelt was draped over the corpses head and shoulders like a mantel.

"Attila," Demona purred. Her eyes were drawn to the sword clutched in the Hunnic King's claw like fingers. It had been forged of a strange blue-grey, almost stone-like metal. Antediluvian runes were inscribed upon the blade and an ice-blue gem shone faintly in its hilt.

"The Sword of Mars," Schappeller whispered in awe. "Passed down from the Aryan Electrical Supermen of Thule-Atlantis! With its power, we can restore the German people to their rightful place in the world, as you said!"

Demona suppressed a chuckle as she pried the Sword from the dead Hun's fingers. It never ceased to amaze her how a species so innately treacherous as humanity could still be so idiotically gullible.

She heard a pistol cock and felt cold metal press gently between her wings.

" _Gott in Himmel!_ " Schappeller shrieked as he backed into a corner, making no move to assist her. "Slavic treachery!"

"Silence, Schappeller!" Demona hissed. "So what now, Brod? You kill us both and take the Sword for yourself?"

"I honour my agreements." said Brod. "You and Schappeller take the Sword, me and my men help ourselves to the rest of the treasure. I just want the Tear of Danu before you go on your merry way."

"Afraid I'll drown you and your men the instant I'm out of the tomb?" asked Demona with a smirk.

"I think you'd slit our throats while we slept for the sheer pleasure of it if you had half a chance." Replied Brod.

Demona chuckled. "Fair enough." She slowly handed the azure jewel the nearest mercenary.

"There, that wasn't so bad, was it?" Brod pocketed the gem, turning to his men. "We'll come back for the coffins later. Clear everything of value from the store rooms first." The mercenaries began filing out of the main burial chamber, leaving Demona and Schappeller alone with Attila's corpse.

"Typical materialism," Schappeller sniffed with disdain. "No doubt due to a Hebrew contaminant in the man's bloodli…"

Before he could utter another word, Demona's talons clamped around the portly Austrian's throat, brutally pinning him to the wall. his legs dangling ineffectually half a foot from the floor. The tip of the Sword of God hovered less than an inch from his face.

"Schappeller," Demona hissed. "Make a single sound, and you die. Move a single muscle and you die. Do you understand me?"

He made no response in reply.

"Good." She brought the tip of the blade closer. Its tip, still unnaturally sharp after all these centuries cut gently into his cheek like a surgeon's scalpel. She held it there, letting the blood trickle down the blade.

She dropped Schappeller, who sat mutely on the tiled floor clutching his chest and panting in terror. She stepped back towards the coffin, holding the tip of the blade directly over the face of Attila. Two drops fell into the Hun's snarling rictus maw. "We're leaving," she said. "Now!"

"What… why?" Schappeller stammered.

"Schappeller," Demona drawled. "As a 'student of the occult', why do you think anyone would bury their king in a _silver_ coffin and under _running_ water?"

Schappeller's eyes widened in understanding. "Gott in Himmel!" he whimpered, quickly following her out, leaving the Hunnic King once more alone in his tomb.

His finger twitched.

 _ **To be continued…**_


	4. Sword of God

_Gargoyles_ , created by Greg Weisman, is the property of the Walt Disney Company. _Dracula_ , created by Bram Stoker, is the property of everyone. Everything else in this story is based on real made-up history.

Special thanks to Masterdramon, Gryphinwyrm7 and Bookwyrm for beta-reading and feedback.

* * *

 **Tomb of Attila, May 1** **st** **, 1:55 a.m. 1926 AD**

Fiona lay quietly in the dark, inky blackness coating her vision. She set to work on the rope binding her, relaxing the muscles she had tensed when she was bound. She'd picked up the trick from an American performance artist. It was slow and arduous work. Her wrist ached but she finally manged to get a hand free.

"Fiona…?" a voice murmured weakly in her ear.

The Scot let out a terrified yelp, scrambling back into a corner. "Get the Hell away from me!"

"Fiona, please," Mina whispered. "You have to get this chain off of me."

"The Hell I do, monster!" Fiona snapped, scrambling against a wall.

"I'm sorry you had to find out like… this."

"Not as sorry as I am, bloodsucker! I can't believe I thought you were my friend!"

"I am your friend, Fiona. You have to understand, I'm not like Falsworth. I'm not some soulless abomination who kills without remorse."

"So you kill people but have a good cry about it afterwards?"

The darkness went dead quiet.

"I have only killed _once_ , Canmore." Mina spoke softly. "Can you say the same?"

"What the Devil is that supposed to mean?" Fiona snarled.

"Why don't you wear the mask?"

Fiona froze.

"It's true then. I'd wondered what exactly you meant when you said your family hunted demons. It didn't become clear until Matthias Church when you tried to slay the gargoyle."

"What the Hell do you know about it?" said Fiona icily.

"Quite a bit actually. A saved my life, if not my soul, once. We used to write. He mentioned the Hunters once, how you've spent the last thousand years butchering his kind, slaughtering innocent and guilty alike."

Fiona leapt into the dark, grabbing the creature by the collar and shaking it violently. "That's a filthy lie! Gargoyles are monsters, all of them! They're evil incarnate!"

"I have _met_ Evil Incarnate, Fiona Canmore. He is no gargoyle," spoke Mina. "Regardless, I don't think you really believe what you're saying."

"And what makes you so damn sure of that?" Fiona hissed.

"Because that's why you don't wear the mask," Mina spoke softly. "You're ashamed."

Fiona opened her mouth to shout back but was cut off by muffled gunfire. She released Mina and pressed her ear against the cold stone slab. Screams and snarls cried out amid the gunfire, sounds of tearing meat and breaking bones.

Then it stopped.

A wet suckling sound was followed by heavy lumbering steps, drawing closer. They stopped just outside.

Fiona jumped back as the unmistakable screech of enormous talons slowly scraped along the other side of the stone slab. She sat there in stunned silence, until the heavy lumbering steps slowly drew away once more.

"What in God's names was that?" Fiona whispered.

"I think… that was Attila," Mina replied.

Fiona opened her mouth to retort when the roar of onrushing water filled the cavern beyond. Clear liquid hissed through the seams of the stone slab as their own chamber slowly began to fill.

"Fiona, I can push that slab aside but you have to unbind me first," said Mina.

Fiona hesitated.

"It's either trust me or drown," implored Mina.

"God damn it all," Fiona swore as she fumbled in the dark, undoing the slim silver chain binding the vampire's wrist. She heard the soft swish of Mina's cloak as the Englishwoman braced herself against the slab.

"There's one more thing," said Mina.

"What?" asked Fiona.

"Once I push the slab free, you'll have to carry me to shore. I… I can't cross running water under my own power.

"Not a problem," Fiona lied, holding her breath and bracing herself against the back wall of the chamber.

Twin crimson embers burned in the dark as the vampire pushed her full might against the stone slab. The stone fell forward with a crash that would have been deafening if not for the drowning roar of the Danube filling the chamber.

The wall of water slam into Fiona with merciless fury. Only sheer force of will kept her from passing out from the impact. She started swimming frantically through the abyss, feeling her way through the dark.

Once her hand rested on soft fabric and cold flesh, the vampire's lifeless form sprawled across the fallen slab no doubt. She quickly swam over the creature into the tunnel beyond.

The corridor was as black as the prison chamber save for a faint grey-blue rectangle at the edge of her vision. She swam straight for it. She was almost free. Weeds dancing in murky moonlight just beyond the threshold.

Then Fiona Canmore did something she thought very stupid.

She turned back.

[-]

"Harker…"

Mina drifted in the darkness; cold, silent and empty.

"Harker!"

Was this True Death? If so, she couldn't understand what all the fuss had been about.

"Wake up!"

A hand slapped across her cheek, snapping her back to consciousness.

"Canmore… You saved… me?" gurgled Mina. Her lungs were still half full of water but she paid it no heed. She hardly used them anyway.

"Barely," said Canmore. "I thought you were dead."

"I am dead." Mina replied, disgorging the last of the river from her lungs. "Where did Attila go?"

"No idea," the Scot answered. "He must be long gone by now."

Mina staggered to her feet. "With his tomb under the Danube, he'll have to find somewhere else to rest. Somewhere the soil is rich in blood and power, a desecrated church, a nexus of ley lines, something."

"Not hard to find in Eastern Europe. You seemed to manage on the train carriage?" Canmore asked.

Mina stood up, eying the Scot warily, "I cheat."

Canmore yanked off her boots, pouring bilge from them. "Why didn't you tell me? I woulda understood if you just bloody explained it."

"No you wouldn't," replied Mina.

Canmore made no response

"Let me clarify one thing, Canmore," continued Mina. "I owe you no justification, explanation or apology. This has nothing to do with trust or friendship. My secrets are mine, to share or not share with whom I chose, as are yours. If you can't respect that then we should part ways right here and now." Mina turned to leave.

"Where the Hell are you going?" asked Canmore?

"After Attila," responded. "You're welcome to join me if you wish?"

"But the Demon has the Sword," Canmore protested. "Surely one vampire can wait?"

"That 'one vampire' had already slaughtered thousands and ravaged half of Europe by the time of its first death," Mina replied. "And there's no telling what being locked in that sarcophagus for over a millennium has done to its mind."

Canmore sat silently as she watched Mina disappear into the treeline. "Devil take ye, Fiona Canmore," she swore, yanking on her boots.

[-]

Fiona arrived an hour later at the mercenary camp to find it in complete disarray. Tents lay shredded, supplied crates had been smashed to splinters and everywhere lay the dessicated remains of its former inhabitants.

The bodies had been roughly decapitated, as though wrenched loose from their shoulders. Their flesh was dry as old parchment, every drop of moisture drained from them.

Fiona made out the light of a bonfire coming from the centre of camp. She stalked closer cautiously.

Harker stood before a makeshift funeral pyre, several of the dead mercenaries had been arranged atop the blaze with as much dignity as could be managed. She seemed to be reading from something.

"In sure and certain hope of the resurrection to eternal life through our Lord Jesus Christ, we commend to Almighty God our brothers; and we commit their bodies to the elements; earth to earth, ashes to ashes, dust to dust. The Lord bless them and keep them, the Lord make His face to shine upon them and be gracious unto them, the Lord lift up His countenance upon them and give them peace… Amen" intoned the vampire solemnly.

Fiona gingerly sidled up next to Harker, the burnt shadow where the crucifix had touched her pale flesh seemed even redder in the firelight.

She cleared her throat. "Any leads?"

"I have yet to search the camp." Replied Harker. "I must dispose of the remains before..."

"Right, right…" Fiona added. "I'll look around, see if it left a trail."

Fiona swept the perimeter of the camp first, hoping to pick up the creature's spoor but found no sign leading in any direction. Had she been hunting a gargoyle, she would have simply assumed it made its escape by air. Vampires were supposed to be able to turn into bats or birds or some such, weren't they? She supposed she could ask Harker but…

She made her way to a shredded tent larger than the others, presumably belonging to either Schappeller or the captain of the mercenaries. Most of its contents were blood spattered and scattered carelessly. She came across a small photograph of the captain himself, standing proudly beside a smiling Czech girl and a stony faced young boy.

She wondered if they were still waiting for him in Prague.

She pocketed the photograph before turning her attention towards the pile of maps that lay strewn about. Most of them were bloodied and torn as if a bear had been foraging through them. One in particular showed a map of the Balkans, a small pencilled circle along the Danube's Hungarian shore marked the camp's rough location.

A thin scarlet trail, left by a bloody talon, began at the circled camp before tracing down along the river and finally arriving at Istanbul.

No, she remembered what the strange girl had said on the Orient Express. The Hun would know nothing of Istanbul, only the eastern capital of the hated Roman Empire. The city he had sworn in life to see razed to the ground.

"Constantinople."

[-]

 **Somewhere on the Bulgarian-Turkish Border, 6:00 a.m.**

It touched down in an empty field as the grey light of dawn began slowly creeping over the horizon. The black pinions that had carried it this far dissolve like smoke for the time being.

Men had died here in recent years; hundreds, perhaps thousands. It could still smell their blood enriching the soil, sanctifying it to the gods of war. This would be a good place to rest. It would draw strength from their sacrifice, from the rage of their unavenged spirits.

Strange that the bulk of their fury seemed reserved for those that had led them into this cursed battlefield rather than the enemy that had cut them down. No matter, they would serve just the same.

It tried to remember its name. tried to remember why it now marched off to war. The centuries of cold blackness had withered its mind almost to nothing, until only the dream of conquests unfulfilled sustained it.

It did not need to remember who it was. It remembered _what_ it was…

 _Flagelum Dei_ , the Scourge of God.

[-]

 **Hungary, 6:10 a.m.**

Fiona watched as the bi-plane came down somewhere behind a barbed-wire topped fence. "I thought Hungary wasn't allowed an airforce anymore?"

"They're not," replied Harker. "But several former members of the Austro-Hungarian _Luftfahrtruppen_ maintain 'private flying clubs' to recruit and train young pilots."

"Bend the rule without breaking it," Fiona mused.

"If I can get you to one of those, can you fly it?"

"Aye, but what are you planning to do, go up and ask if we can borrow one?" Fiona turned to see Harker marching up to the gate of the airfield, bold as brass. "Oh Hell!"

A guard stepped out to meet them. "I'm sorry, ma'ams," he said in thick Hungarian. "This area is for members only."

Harker lifted her veil, locking eyes with the guard. "But my friend and I have pressing business within," she replied in strangely intoned Hungarian.

The guard blinked uncertainly. "You have pressing business within," he mumbled mechanically.

"You should unlock the gate."

"I should unlock the gate," the guard droned, doing as he was bid.

"What the bloody Hell did you do to him!?" Fiona hissed as she came running up behind Harker.

"I have a certain amount of… influence on the suggestible."

Fiona eyed her suspiciously. "You've never used that on _me_ , have ye?"

Mina snorted. ""Please, Canmore; I've known bull elephants more suggestible than you."

"Don't flatter me."

"Come along now. It's time to pick out your present."

[-]

 **Topkapi Palace, Istanbul, 9:00pm.**

The first rays of the rising moon streamed down from a tranquil sky upon the palace. For centuries it had been the seat of Ottoman power, now a museum of the newly democratized and secularized Turkish Republic's heritage.

"These relics are not really intended for public viewing, Miss Zade," the guard said, unlocking the heavy iron door in the castle's courtyard. "But seeing as you're a personal friend of President Kemal I don't see why we can't make an exception."

"I appreciate it, captain," said Shari as her escort ushered her into the main vault. Within were mounted eight ancient swords of the most exquisite workmanship. Each was unique in form and design, each was beautiful, and each had at one time or another been wielded by the Prophet himself.

For the first time in many _many_ years, Shari felt humble.

Her gaze was drawn to one sword in particular, the holy names of David, Solomon, Moses, Aaron, Joshua, Zechariah, John, Jesus, and Muhammad were inscribed upon its blade.

"Ah," the guard spoke up. "You have a good eye, Miss. That is…"

" _Al-Battar_ , the Sword of the Prophets," she intoned solemnly. "The story is told, though who can say if it be true, that this is the very blade with which King David beheaded the Philistine Giant, Goliath. The same blade that will vanquish the Masih ad-Dajjal at the End of Days."

"Uh… yes," the guard confirmed.

The vault shook as the sound of thunder rolled heavily in the sky outside. Shari cocked an eyebrow. "Sudden change in the weather?"

The Captain eyed the iron door wearily. A veteran of both Balkan Wars, some old instinct gnawed at the back of his mind. "Perhaps, Miss Zade… it would be best if you wait here for a moment?"

"Of course, Captain," she replied. "I'd hate to be a bother."

He nodded curtly before briskly exiting the vault in a manner calculated not arouse undue worry or panic in front of a civilian.

Shari was surprised. She'd expected getting left alone with _al-Battar_ to be more of a challenge, but the Captain had been more obliging than she expected. She reached for the blade only to be distracted by the sound of shouting and gunfire coming from outside. Curious, she edged towards the chink in the iron door, peering out.

Torrential rain drowned the courtyard. Men ran in a panic across the courtyard, some opening fire with their rifles into the night sky. Lightening flashed as something with wings large enough to rival the Roc swooped down to grab a young Turkish soldier in its talons, dragging him screaming into the darkness above.

[-]

 **Above Istanbul, 9:30 p.m.**

Fiona checked the fuel gauge on the 'commandeered' bi-plane and frowned. They'd already been forced to cover almost twice the range this model had been designed for and she wasn't certain how long more it could hold. The sudden turn in the weather certainly wasn't helping.

"Something wrong?!" Harker yelled from the rear compartment, fighting to be heard over the torrential rain and howling winds. The engine sputtered ominously.

"I need to find somewhere to put down, now!" Fiona cried back. "Or we're liable to drop out of the…"

Something vast and unseen suddenly collided with the bi-plane, sending it hurtling violently through the skies. It took every shred of skill Fiona possessed to keep the aircraft from turning into a nosedive as the tatters of a destroyed wing flapped in the whirling winds.

A dark shape careened through the clouds, swooping in for another attack. Lightning flashed, Fiona only saw the creature for split- second but the image was indelibly carved upon her mind for all time.

The Hun was not gaunt and pale as she had imagined. It was corpulent and ruddy, its stomach was morbidly bloated and gorged with stolen blood like a gargantuan tick. Even with the vast vulture-like wings that rose from its shoulder blades, it seemed incredulous that such a thing could remain airborne. Its lips were pulled back in a permanent rictus snarl, revealing massive canines more like tusks than fangs.

The sight shocked Fiona, but not as much as the sight of Harker climbing from her pit and clambering onto the wing.

"Harker, what the Hell are you doing?" she shrieked against the wind.

"Buying you time!" The words seemed hoarse and slightly slurred but before Fiona could give it any thought, Harker leapt from the plane, colliding with the attacking scourge in mid-air and sending them both hurtling to the ground below.

"MINA!" Fiona cried in terror.

She searched the surrounding landscape desperately for anywhere to put down safety. "Shit!" she muttered as she tightened the straps on her 'lucky back pack'.

[-]

 **Eyüp Cemetery, Istanbul, 9:45 p.m.**

The storm abated almost as suddenly as it had erupted. Fiona found herself touching down safety somewhere near where she thought Mina and the Hun had gone down. Austere grey structures rose on all sides of her, silent empty footpaths winding between them.

At first she thought such silence uncanny in the heart of a major city, particularly one that stood at the crossroads of two continents. Then she realised the truth. The grey structures looming about her were tombs. She had landed in the middle of an ancient and sprawling necropolis.

The sepulchral silence was shattered by a howl of rage coming from somewhere deep within the cemetery. Fiona raced through the maze of tombs, towards the unholy sound. Something she bitterly thought in keeping with her judgement lately. She halted with a shudder, coming upon a sight that froze her in her tracks.

It was unmistakably the same winged devil that had attacked the bi-plane. Even forced to the ground it was a gruesome sight. But for Fiona, the Hun was no more horrific than the beast it was currently locked in animalistic combat.

The beast resembled a wolf only so much as a true wolf resembled the tamest Labrador. It was a massive, shaggy monstrosity with dark grey fur. Its fangs were like sabres. Its eyes burned with hellish fury, hunger and lust. The beast bit deep into the Hun's bloated belly, unleashing a crimson fountain that only seemed to inflame rather than slake its rage.

"Mina?" Fiona whispered.

The Hun responded by sinking its talons deep into the beast's back, savagely ripping away strips of scarlet flesh as its foe only bit down harder.

"Fiona!" a voice cried out amid the chaos.

The Scot turned to see Shari of all people racing towards her. The girl lunged her arm forward, tossing something that gleamed in the light of the moon. Fiona reached out her hand to grab the hilt of a long ornate sword, arabesques etched along its blade.

Taking the weapon firmly in both hands, Fiona rushed to where the Hun still trashed wildly in 'Mina's' jaws. The beast could only hold the devil a moment more at most.

The blade rose to strike a moment too late as the undead warlord finally hurled its foe aside. The Hun was still prone on the ground, its eyes locked with Fiona's.

It hesitated.

For decades, Fiona would wonder why the Hun did not simply gut her where she stood. Perhaps after a millennium of undeath, the great conqueror it had once been only desired the warrior's death that had been denied him in life. Perhaps it was simply tired.

But in that moment, Fiona Canmore did not think. She was a Hunter and her prey had dropped its guard, instinct did the rest.

The Hun's severed head rolled across the graveyard as fifteen centuries of decay claimed their due. By the time it came to a rest, what had once been the head of a slavering nightmare fiend was simply a cracked skull trailing dust behind it.

Fiona had just enough time to let out a low sigh of exhaustion before she was tackled to the ground by a massive shaggy form. The Harker-beast pinned Fiona's sword arm with one gigantic paw, making the blade useless. Its grey fur had been matted and dyed an ugly rust by the blood.

Fiona looked up into the blazing, battle maddened eyes of the thing that had been her friend. "Mina, listen to me. This isn't you!"

The beast's fangs slowly lowered towards Fiona's throat.

"You said you weren't like other vampires… Prove it!"

The beast paused, the bloodlust cleared from its eyes. Rage and hunger were instantly replaced by horror and loathing.

Fiona looked up into those eerily human eyes for the briefest of moments, before the vampire suddenly fled into the night.

The Scot almost tried to call her back before the futility of it stopped her. What could anyone possibly say after something like that?

Someone helped her to her feet. "Are you alright, Fiona?" asked Shari

"I..," Fiona gazed at the young girl without comprehension. "I'm fine."

"I'm glad," the girl smiled, utterly nonplussed by what she had witnessed. "Could I get that back, by the way?"

"Oh, of course, thanks," Fiona said, wiping clean the sword before retunring it. "Shari… What on Earth are ye doing here?"

"Well that's a very long, story," the young girl said, amiably taking the Scot's hand and guiding her through the cemetery. "Why don't I tell you over a hot meal, my treat?"

[-]

 **15 Pall Mall, London, 11:55 pm, May 15th**

Fiona double checked the address on the telegram before knocking. This was undoubtedly the place her informant had specified. Though she could not imagine why he would choose this a meeting place.

The door opened and a doorman appraised her wordlessly.

"Sorry 'bout this but I'm supposed to meet a Father du Plessis here?" she said.

He waved Fiona in, leading her to the door of a small reading room, holding it open.

"Fiona?" a voiced called out from within.

The Scot's eyes widened in shock. There, sitting in an armchair with a book open in her lap, was Mina Harker.

The doorman closed the door behind him, leaving the two women alone. Uneasy silence filled the room for several long minutes as Fiona nervously paced the thickly carpeted floor.

"I'm sorry…" Mina finally spoke. "About what happened in Istanbul."

Fiona pulled up a chair across from the English woman. "What exactly did happen in Istanbul, Mina?"

"I let it out," she whispered. "That beast you saw in Eyüp Cemetery; I'd kept it locked inside me. It's always waiting for me to drop my guard, constantly clawing at my mind every minute of every night for fifteen years since…"

"since what?"

"When I first… died, the thirst was unlike anything I'd ever experienced. I was little more than an animal. It took away all my reason… all my vaunted Victorian morality… my Johnathan."

 _A vampire killed my husband, I can never forgive the monster responsible._

The words rose unbidden from Fiona's memory. "My God, Mina… I…"

"I understand why you hate me, Fiona. I hate myself. Finding Quincey is the only thing that's kept me from freeing myself from this Hell."

"I don't hate you, Mina." The Scot's eyes were downcast. "Ever since my brother died, I've… done things. Things I thought were absolutely and unquestionably right at the time. I told myself I was protecting Mankind. All the while, Mankind seemed more interested in blowing itself to Kingdom come. Maybe there are people out there who can see how the whole tapestry fits together. Who know how to save the world from itself. I bloody Hell don't know what's right and wrong anymore. But I know this…"

She placed here hand on her friend's. "Alive or dead, yer a good woman, Mina Harker."

Mina smiled weakly, for the first time Fiona could ever recall. "As are you, Fiona Canmore."

[-]

The room was dark save for a single shaft of light shingin down upon a round marble table surrounded by six high backed chairs. Three of which were already occupied. This was the Star Chamber, reserved only for the Club's most elite and secretive members. A tapestry depicting a golden pyramid topped by a single all-seeing eye adorned each wall.

"Your Eminence, you have the floor," Shari spoke.

A crimson robed Cardinal rose and bowed. "Mademoiselle Zade, Fiona Canmore has proven herself cunning, ruthless and unrelenting in the pursuit of her goals. All qualities valued highly by our… _Fraternité_. It was she who slew the demon Attila, as you witnessed for yourself."

"I do seem to recall Mrs. Harker helping with that, Your Eminence?" asked Shari.

"And yet, I cannot help but notice that… 'Mrs. Harker' has failed to deliver the Sword of Mars as promised," replied du Plessis.

Shari turned to the corpulent gentleman still lazily puffing on his cigar. "M?"

For a moment, it seemed as though he too would rise from his armchair before releasing a sigh of exasperation and sinking back into the cushion. "Madam, as you just pointed out to my most learned colleague, Miss Canmore would have been dead half a dozen times over if not for Mrs. Harker's intervention. She possesses unique skills and a certain… incentive to work with us. I admit the loss of one Sword was an unfortunate setback, but Mrs Harker's exploits did provide you with useful distraction. Which is why I stand by my initial nomination."

"This is true." Shari admired _al-Battar,_ now laid reverently across the marble table. In the chaos caused by the Hunnic vampire's attack on Tokapi Palace, exchanging it for a replica had been simpler than any of them had hoped.

She steepled her fingers. "It seems to me that having to choose between one or the other misses the forest for the trees. Having had a chance to observe them twice, it seems they complement each other well."

Du Plessis cocked an eyebrow. "What do you suggest?"

Shari flashed a cat-like grin. "Send them _both_ up."

[-]

 **The Borgo Pass, Romania, November 5** **th** **, 1997 AD**

Demona soared over the dark forests which seemed to cover every uninhabited inch of land in this region. It was easy to see why the humans had named this place the 'The Land Beyond the Forest'.

She had read once that long ago, before humanity had spread across the continent, forests such as these covered all of Europe. A squirrel, if it had been so inclined, could have travelled form Brittany to Moldavia without once having to touch the ground.

Perhaps one night soon, they would again. The thought brought a curl to her lips.

She spied the castle, its crumbling towers a black silhouette against the bone white moon. From a distance it looked more like the rotting carcass of some slain dragon than a man-made artifice.

She clutched her package closely, a long object swathed in leather wrappings.

Touching down in the ruined courtyard, the first thing she noticed where the dozen or so oblong man-sized crates stacked neatly just inside the castle gates. One sat open, it's lid yet to be nailed down. A thin layer of earth, no doubt dug from beneath the castle, was spread along the crate's bottom.

A low growl rose behind her. In an instant, she spun around. Her eyes blazed red as she flared her wings and bared her fangs.

Several wolves stalked out from the courtyard's shadows, baring their own fangs in turn. They circled the gargoyle as they would any other intruder in their domain.

Demona was about to pounce and rend the nearest beast to ribbons when a harsh bark rang out. At the sound, the wolves drew back, admonished.

A new beast padded out from the castle's iron door, larger and darker than any of the others. The pack's leader, thought Demona.

Once the rest of its kin had skulked back to wherever they hid themselves, the great beast stepped to the side and sat silently by the open door. Its meaning was clear.

 _Enter freely and of your own will._

She followed the great wolf to a small dining chamber in one of the better preserved towers. A long table was laid out before a roaring fire, stacked high with several platters of cooked meats. At the head of the table, sat the Abomination.

He was clad in a simple dark robe, the hood shadowed his features but she could still make out the visage of a charred skull, tendrils of pale flesh were slowly regenerating over the blackened bone. Twin glowing red embers regarded her thoughtfully from otherwise empty sockets.

If he expected her to inquire about the source of his injuries, then he grossly overestimated the interest she placed in his well-being.

"Demona," he spoke softly, little more than a whisper, gesturing to an empty chair with a skeletal claw. "Please sit and eat. I'm sure the journey was tiring."

She stood silent and unmoving.

"Very well," he sighed. "Berserker!" He tossed a cut of meat to the wolf who lay down by the fire to devour it on it.

Her eyes narrowed. "I have no interest in blandishing insincere pleasantries with you, Tepes. You have something I want as I have something you want. Let's get this over with."

"If you insist. Though I'm curious, Demona. You've had the Sword of Mars in your position for of seven decades yet to the best of my knowledge, you've never made any use of its power. And now, you offer it in trade?"

She unwrapped the leather package, revealing the ebon blade. "The Hunnic shamans who created the Tear of Danu also placed a ward on this blade. Only one of who possesses the blood of Attila may wield its power."

"Such as myself?"

"If your boasts are truthful," she sneered. "What do you offer in exchange?"

He slid an envelope across the table. "Enclosed within is the current location of the _Tenebris Custodia_ , a tome written by the Master of the Scholomance Himself."

She tore the envelope open and read, cocking an eyebrow bridge. "The Vatican's secret archives? I suppose that explains why you never tried claiming it yourself."

"A fair bargain," he spoke. "Something I cannot take for something you cannot use."

For a moment, she considered fighting her way out and taking the Sword with her. After all, she had no way of confirming his intelligence. Still, he was right, it was useless to her. A scrap of sharpened metal wasn't worth the aggravation.

"I have a condition," she said.

"Oh?"

She laid the black blade on the table and turned to leave. "Kill as many humans as you can with it."

He raised the Sword, testing it. Despite his seemingly thin form he wielded the weapon as though it were light as a switch of willow. The runes inscribed along the ebon blade glowed blood red. He let out a rasping chuckle.

"Agreed."

 **Never the End.**


End file.
